Pink Frills and White Lace
by littlemisslovelygood
Summary: The five dresses in Clove's life


1)

Pink frills and white lace. The little baby girl's doe brown eyes are wide with curiosity and innocence as she takes in the world around her—her only world, her home. The girly dress suits her perfectly as its wearer is all smiles and joy herself. The neighbors coo and her mother picks her up, surrounded by the oh's and ah's of friends all gathered to meet the little princess on her first official day into the world.

"Clove," the mother announces, holding the baby up for all of District Two to see. "My little Clove."

2)

"It's hideous," Clove growls as she eyes the yellow sundress that her mother holds coolly. Her distaste for dresses has grown over the years, feeling that they made her too vulnerable and not threatening enough—too prissy. She liked people to know to fear her; she liked them to know what she was capable of. Her mother had bought the outfit to celebrate her success in training, but Clove wanted nothing to do with the prize.

Her mother sighed, oblivious as parents are to their children's true colors. "I think you would look beautiful in it," she informs her, sounding tired and eyeing her daughter warily. She puts the dress in the young girl's closet—the closet that Clove had cleaned the blood off of so well that her mother doesn't notice a thing that's wrong, which, of course, is the goal.

After her mother leaves, Clove rises, moving silently, slowly towards the hanging fabric. Her doe brown eyes are narrowed but otherwise show no emotion as she whips out her knife and calmly attacks the garment, slashing here and there and tearing it into unrecognizable shreds. Bits and pieces of yellow cloth float down to the floor. She scoops up the remains and throws them in the trash bin, hoping her mother never notices.

3)

The dress is brown. It's a simple thing, pretty but not distracting. It matched her eyes perfectly, all the more reason, she found, to hate it. She had cleaned herself up for the occasion—her brown hair down and her hands free of blood and her knife. The residents of District Two had begun to assemble in the town square and she watched with disdain and loathing for the whole thing, hoping more than anything to be picked. She fidgeted with the hem of the garment, anticipation and excitement building.

Their District Representative had long since mounted the stage and was now finally getting around to picking the tributes. He reached his long, fingered hand into the glass bowl containing the girl's names and Clove's excitement grew. This was her year; she knew it was.

"Clove Shiester."

4)

The dress is orange—a surprisingly pretty color on the brunette. A frilly, poufy dress that makes her feel way too much like a girl. The whole look—her hair in an elegant knot on top of her head, her shoes with their small heals, and the short gown make her feel extremely weak—a feeling she has done her best to avoid her whole life. This is why she loved to train, why she loved the feeling of piercing each target perfectly in its center, why she loved to watch the blood run. She loved to win, and would stop at nothing to do so. To lose is to be weak and worthless and shameful, something reiterated all her life. It was emphasized and instilled permanently into her brain by her family and peers. She was a product of her environment, what could she say?

Clove repeatedly had to remind herself that the charm and sweetness was all part of her angle as she waited backstage for her interview with Caesar Flickerman. She was going after District One's Marvel. He would be an easy kill, she deemed. He may be arrogant and strong but he was extremely dim. It wouldn't take much effort on her part to take him out of the running and to bump her up one step closer to winning the Games. Winning was all she knew how to do.

His three minutes were up, signaled by the buzzer. Now was her cue to mount the stage and greet and woo the audience.

Now was her time to win.

5)

The dress would have been gold—a color she thought would look beautiful on Clove. It would have gone perfectly with the Victor's crown. The shimmering gown, however, now sat in Clove's repainted closet, gathering dust, never to be worn. The brunette's stylist had put so much effort and care into the garment, hoping that she would finally have clothed and beautified a winner.

Every stitch was impeccable, every button and thread perfectly placed, every ribbon on the corset back aligned to have fit the wearer's body like a glove. It was too beautiful to go to waste, so she gave it to her Tribute's family, hoping that perhaps it might have offered some consolation when the body arrived.

That was four dresses now, lost to the Games. The yellow sundress prize, the brown Reaping dress lost on the Capitol train, the orange interview gown left with the others who knows where, and now this one, lost in the way as it will never be used by its owner who never knew it.

Her mother did still, however, have her baby dress. The one worn on her first real day out in the world, the one worn along with the cheers of neighbors and friends. The one worn with an expression of serenity and happiness on the child's young face. Despite her daughters true colors having been shown over the years, she still insisted over the years that this tiny garment fit Clove better than anything she's ever owned.

The pink frills and white lace.


End file.
